


Sine qua non

by radishwine



Category: Tron: Betrayal, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishwine/pseuds/radishwine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tron wants.  Flynn won't.<br/>Contains fanart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sine qua non

Tron starts breathing again only after they touch down on the roof of the adjoining building. He lets go of Flynn after a long moment, then sets unthinkingly to the mechanical task of retracting his grapple gun.

“Those were some moves back there, man,” Flynn says, bent over and panting a bit, keeping himself upright with one heavy hand on Tron’s shoulder. “I thought I was toast for sure when that strut went down.”

“You weren’t. I accompanied you on the job in case of just that scenario,” Tron concentrates on getting the right words out, light and calm. He can’t give away the sick mix of adrenaline and despair that still churns under his skin, too slow to subside even now when Flynn is _safe_ and whole and close enough to touch.

A clear pattern has emerged that Tron can’t ignore any longer-- Flynn takes too many unnecessary, calculated risks with his own life. He’s the Creator. Doesn’t he know that he’s the only being that matters in-- to-- this world?

“Thanks for saving my butt again. For the… You know, I can’t even remember how many times it’s been now.” Flynn chuckles lowly. He straightens, hand slipping off Tron’s shoulder.

“It’s what I’m here for,” Tron replies, the well-worn phrases coming easily now. “No need to thank me.”

Flynn’s eyes are open and earnest and very, very blue. “Thanks. I mean it.”

 _There_ , that look again.

Ever since Tron has started paying attention, he’s been seeing it everywhere. In the nightclubs, especially, luminescent on the faces of Programs too caught up in each other to notice a security enforcer prowling amongst them.  
It’s lust, love, infatuation: pick one or any of them. For all that he’s never experienced these particular emotions before-- his feelings for Yori had been cleaner and… brighter-- he is sure of his conclusion, based on a few simple steps of inductive reasoning.

He’s also sure, finally, that Flynn has been looking at _him_.

Tron steps closer slowly, telegraphing his intent, and when there’s no reaction he reaches up to gently bracket Flynn’s shoulders with his hands. Some kind of strange veil has fallen over his higher processes. His background sensing functions tell him that he is standing upright, at a high relative elevation exposed to moderate wind speed. He receives the visual input of Flynn’s face, ever closer now. Yet all this data seems muted and meaningless when he can’t parse it through the haze of static electricity blooming in his mind.

He leans in. A kiss is simple press of lips, but this one lights up all his circuits in blazing succession.  It’s perfection, for a bare microcycle.

Then Flynn shoves back with all his strength. 

“What--” Flynn chokes out.  Tron reads revulsion in the lines of his face and the rigid stance of his body. He wonders, anguished, what he did wrongly.

“I’m sorry.” Tron says numbly. “I thought-- you wanted this.”  The conflicting urges to either rush to Flynn’s side or shrink into a defensive posture are nearly irresistible. Tron allows himself neither. Instead he forces himself to stand tall-- chin lifted, hands resting at his sides. He _will_ face this.

“It doesn’t matter what _I_ want!” Flynn snaps. It’s not a denial, and Tron feels a hollow surge of triumph. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

“It’s not because you’re the Creator that I--” Tron trails off, confused. He suspects this is the crux of Flynn’s objection, but nothing about this situation is computing correctly anymore.

Silence falls over the rooftop, then stretches on.

Flynn breaks first. He rubs a hand over his face and lets out a quiet groan. “Sorry. I think we’re just both too tired. Lot of late nights recently.”

“Yes, but I meant--” Tron senses the conversation about to slip out of his grasp.

“Let it go, Tron.” Flynn interrupts, voice tight with false cheer. “We’re buds, it’s not gonna be a problem. I’m gonna go home and forget this ever happened.”

“I care for you _because_ you’re my friend.” Tron tries to inject all his conviction into the words. He’s certain of his desire, knows it as deeply and surely as the very directives at his core.

“You’re _programmed_ to care for Users,” Flynn says, head snapping up. “Alan based your operational definition on it. Why do you think your first instinct is to protect me, then the Grid?”

Tron bites back an irrational retort. Flynn’s statement is true. Beyond knowing their main purpose, programs aren’t able to read into the individual functional requirements that their code was written to meet, let alone any of their unintended effects. What he doesn’t understand is why Flynn holds this… Philosophical tenet so sacred. There are many fundamental things he doesn’t yet understand about Users, all seeming to stem from the way their emotion and reason seem inextricably entwined.

“Permission doesn’t mean anything when someone can’t say no, Tron.” Flynn says. He suddenly looks very tired. “I’d be taking the worst kind of advantage.”

He can’t backtrace the genesis of these feelings, Tron thinks with wild hope, but removing the confounding directives should provide sufficient proof for Flynn’s purposes.

“You can reprogram me. Remove Alan-One’s directives.”

Programs were derezzed in the old regime for much less than this. Tron finds he cannot bring himself to care-- he’s already risked too much, and stands to gain everything. Flynn, though, just stares as though Tron has sprouted a second identity disc.

“This is me, Flynn, with or without those lines of code. Please let me show you.” Those mere ‘lines of code’ are what define the scope of his entire existence, but Tron has learned a few rhetorical tricks from Flynn over the cycles. He holds his breath and awaits judgment.

Flynn throws his head back and laughs. It’s a good, honest sound.

“I keep saying-- you’re something else, Tron,” Flynn’s laughter tapers off into something rueful and wondering. Tron remains silent, heart still lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

“All right," Flynn says slowly, as though each word is being reluctantly dragged out of him.  "I'll be back in 60 cycles.  It'll take a while, so clear your schedule that shift."  With that, Flynn turns and walks away. 

Tron wants to crow his triumph across the rooftops of the sleeping city. He wants to drag Flynn to the nearest secure location and make him do it  _now_ , then--.

He settles for a simple "Thank you."    

Flynn doesn't turn around, but he gives a little wave before unfurling the wings of his miniature solar sailer and diving off the side of the building in a heart-stopping swoop.  Tron continues tracking Flynn's figure until it disappears in the far distance, near where he knows the I/O tower to be. Even then, Tron lingers on the rooftop for no reason that he can name. He watches alone as the lights of the city turn on, one by one. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I joined tumblr very recently in search of Tron fandom (is it actually alive anywhere?) Had an interesting short exchange with tronochrome about the inherent power imbalance between Users and Programs, which inspired this fic.  
> I don't feel that I can wrap it up in a satisfying way yet, so... Please use your imagination to fill in what comes after the illustrated scene 8).  
> Note: I used cycle in the supposedly colloquial way, to indicate a "day" on the Grid. KFlynn needs real sleep in the real world, unfortunately.


End file.
